Perhaps death smells like autumn leaves,maple hands gently fallen,bodies curled in sweet blood huesLaid at the feet of their mothers.

What a wonder it is that we try so hard to pretend we will never fall from our trees.It seems such a tragedy to leave this world bare,To be swallowed by snow.We forget it seems,That there is a sweetness inThe bloom that comes laterAnd a sweetness too in the falling,In returning to the earthIn red.